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pernille-v
Poems0
You say, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” but I say surely something must taste nicer than the burning acid being forced back up your throat. Why not hug people instead of toilet bowls? At least they’ll hug back. Except Mia is your only friend now. And her cousin, Ana, of course. And I understand that you never wanted to die, but this is a thousand ton truck hurtling towards the edge of a cliff and Ana took the wheel a long time ago. There is no strength in this: in you, in a fear of calories. Even your bones creak as your muscles sigh with exhaustion - for this, is not a war you're winning. This is a battle with only one contender and I will not be the one to disarm you. That's your job and it always has been. I know you only wanted to be beautiful like all those stars in the magazines you saved under a file titled ‘thinspo’ but the only stars you ever saw were in your eyes from the dizziness and to tell you the truth, you are not pretty. For there is nothing “pretty” about the layer of fuzz your body grew to protect itself from the big bad wolf when really, the only growl was coming from inside your stomach. Or how your little sister is afraid to touch, let alone hug you, in fear of snapping you in two. For there is no glamour in having to remove clumps of hair out of the plughole at least six times whilst having a shower, just to let the water run down. Or that one time you "accidentally” took too many laxatives. Messy. There is nothing admirable about the way you sat shivering on your bed at night instead of kissing boys, or dancing, or eating ice cream. There is nothing to be marvelled at in dying. This, is not a life to be lived. God, this isn't even a life. This is being a slave to your own body, a walking zombie, a ghost stuck between two sides. You are not alive. But it was all still worth it, right? Slowly killing yourself from the inside out. A small price to pay for perfection, a bargain for a broken mirror; for a half-written book with 97 blank pages, a camera that only captures in black and white, a clock with frozen hands. And most importantly, for a peace of mind you never received. No refunds.
0
pernille-v
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
ninajc
the ugly side to eating disorders
You say, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” but I say surely something must taste nicer than the burning acid being forced back up your throat. Why not hug people instead of toilet bowls? At least they’ll hug back. Except Mia is your only friend now. And her cousin, Ana, of course. And I understand that you never wanted to die, but this is a thousand ton truck hurtling towards the edge of a cliff and Ana took the wheel a long time ago. There is no strength in this: in you, in a fear of calories. Even your bones creak as your muscles sigh with exhaustion - for this, is not a war you're winning. This is a battle with only one contender and I will not be the one to disarm you. That's your job and it always has been. I know you only wanted to be beautiful like all those stars in the magazines you saved under a file titled ‘thinspo’ but the only stars you ever saw were in your eyes from the dizziness and to tell you the truth, you are not pretty. For there is nothing “pretty” about the layer of fuzz your body grew to protect itself from the big bad wolf when really, the only growl was coming from inside your stomach. Or how your little sister is afraid to touch, let alone hug you, in fear of snapping you in two. For there is no glamour in having to remove clumps of hair out of the plughole at least six times whilst having a shower, just to let the water run down. Or that one time you "accidentally” took too many laxatives. Messy. There is nothing admirable about the way you sat shivering on your bed at night instead of kissing boys, or dancing, or eating ice cream. There is nothing to be marvelled at in dying. This, is not a life to be lived. God, this isn't even a life. This is being a slave to your own body, a walking zombie, a ghost stuck between two sides. You are not alive. But it was all still worth it, right? Slowly killing yourself from the inside out. A small price to pay for perfection, a bargain for a broken mirror; for a half-written book with 97 blank pages, a camera that only captures in black and white, a clock with frozen hands. And most importantly, for a peace of mind you never received. No refunds.
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